


A Study in Seduction

by shirleyholmes



Series: Chaos Theory [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Fingering, BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Bars and Pubs, Blow Jobs, Drunk John, Drunk Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, Fingerfucking, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Fluff and Crack, Fluff and Smut, Frottage, Greg Lestrade & John Watson Friendship, Humor, Idiots in Love, John is not gay, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, POV John Watson, Paternal Lestrade, Porn With Plot, Rough Sex, Seduction, Sexual Experimentation, Sexual Fantasy, Sexual Humor, Sherlock Being a Tease, Sherlock Experiments on John, Sherlock is Not a Virgin, only because John is slightly drunk, sherlock needs to stop being so seductive it's annoying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-30
Updated: 2013-04-30
Packaged: 2017-12-10 00:28:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/779707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shirleyholmes/pseuds/shirleyholmes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson's fairly sure that Sherlock Holmes is seducing him. And that there's possibly some sort of fairy dust involved. After all, it's not like it's JOHN'S fault that he finds the man just so eminently fuckable.</p><p>...........</p><p>“I’ve figured it out,” John announces against his lips. “You’re a vampire that seduces his victims. That’s it, isn’t it? I’m right?” </p><p>“I will devour you,” Sherlock growls at him and yup, that’s theory confirmed then. Not entirely unexpected. </p><p>“I’d prefer to survive this, you know,” John tells him. Sherlock leans down and viciously nips at his neck again. “Oh alright, I mean, just a preference and all, not that big of a deal—“</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Study in Seduction

**Author's Note:**

> Mostly just slightly cracky fluff and smut. The dub-con warning is only because John is mildly drunk in the first scene and Sherlock's a bit sleepy--always better to be over doing the warnings, I think. This came about because I still find it amusing that everyone in Sherlock is in love with Sherlock. Clearly that has to be attributed to fairy dust. Or his cheekbones. Either way, it's just NOT fair. 
> 
> Note that the characters' opinions are not my own, clearly and are sometimes a bit controversial.

Sherlock is tall and muscular and his eyes are dazzling and his smile is sharp and his hair is thick and unruly and perfect and whenever John starts on this mental rant, he has to remind himself that this is not a Mills and Boone novel and he is not some swooning gauze-clothed heroine. 

Or at least, he’s fairly sure he’s not, though if Sherlock shoots him one more sultry gaze from under those (fucking unreal) eyelashes, he might have to reconsider his position. 

Lestrade is of the opinion that he’s making up the ‘come-hither’ glances, having finally cracked under the strain of months of sexual frustration. Which would still be Sherlock’s fault, mind you, but John is fairly sure he’s sane. (Well, as sure as he ever is—he’s started thinking of himself as ‘the sane one’ in the household, but considering he’s a danger addict and that he voluntarily chooses to room with Sherlock Holmes--who’s admittedly a bastard, when he isn’t busy being an eminently fuckable bastard—he’s forced to conclude that ‘sane’ is very, very relative terminology.)

But still. 

“I’m telling you Greg, it’s not real—he screams ‘fuck me’ like some bloody—like nothing. There is nothing to compare to this.”

“Look,” Lestrade says patiently, (for the fourth or fifth time, but God knows that Lestrade has a hell of a lot of patience—heck, he’s known Sherlock for years and they’re not even related. Or, you know, in some sort of vaguely suggestive domestic situation. ) “I’ve known Sherlock since he was a moping uni student with wrists so thin you could break ‘em. And I’ve seen him pull his seduction tricks on every hapless fool that wanders across his path—“

“No, _no_ , this is different. I promise. I’ve seen that too, but this is—if you saw this, you wouldn’t be able to resist him.”

Lestrade harrumphs dubiously into his pint. “Seems to me Molly Hooper says that same thing.”

John snorted. “School-girl crush—totally different.” 

“Uh-huh,” Lestrade says, apparently restraining himself with some difficulty. At John’s glare, he hastily adds, “Well, Jim Moriarty was pretty keen on slicing himself off a piece of that too.”

He pauses, considering. “Possibly literally.” 

“He’s utterly mad and obsessed with Sherlock to boot—of course it’s different.”

Again, Lestrade seems to be choking down a comment. He wars with himself for a bit and then soldiers on like the good mate that he is. 

“Irene Adler wasn’t even into men,” he remarks hopefully. “And you’re not either. Seems to me—“

John slams his pint on the wooden table for emphasis and it sloshes a bit onto his lap. They both ignore it. 

He wags a finger in Greg’s face. “Oh no. No, no, no. 48 text messages. I am not that desperate. Or trying to take down the British Empire. I am merely being seduced.” 

“Alright, alright—“ 

“48, Greg, really—“

“Yeah? Did you keep tally marks on the wall or--?“

John grimaces. “Ran out of space.” 

Lestrade holds up his hands in a gesture of defeat. “Okay then—how about Sally Donovan?”

“Definitely diff—wait, really?” 

Lestrade looks about uneasily, as if Sally might materialize out of the booth, summoned only by the dark power of her name. “I didn’t tell you.”

John takes a moment to process that. “Blimey.”

“Yeah.”

“But,” John continues, thickly determined. “This is DIFFERENT. Sherlock Holmes is blatantly seducing me.” 

“If you say so, mate. “ Lestrade chuckles. “Though I got to say, if you’re right, then you’re properly screwed, aren’t you?”

…………

‘Screwed’, it turns out, is a bit of an understatement. John comes home--just this side of happy, thank you very much—and is confronted with the sight of his flat mate-- (the eminently fuckable one)—(he doesn’t actually have any others)---(John might be a bit more pissed than he thought he was)---(but the fact that he refers to Sherlock as his eminently fuckable flat mate even when he’s sober doesn’t actually bear thinking about). Anyways, that—thing---is currently busy masquerading as a bundle of silk with hair on the sofa. 

He decides that a cold shower is in order. A very cold shower. And when he gets back, the lump on the sofa will be gone, because that seems like a logical assumption to be making at the moment. 

Of course, pint-driven logic isn’t really that reliable and, moreover, John really has the worst of luck. So he’s not all together surprised, when he wanders back in, 10 minutes later, (having managed to splash more water on the bathroom floor than on his actual body), that the lump is still there. And he is only marginally more sober. And also, because his life’s like that, he seems to have put on his jeans inside out. 

“It just has a ring to it, you know?” he tells the lump reasonably. “Eminently fuckable. Like there’s something to be said for the phrase. Think I’ll put it in my blog in the morning. Remind me won’t you?” 

He plops down on the sofa at Sherlock’s feet, feeling remarkably brave. He was a soldier, after all. His pretty-faced flat mate doesn’t terrify him. That would be ridiculous.

And really--It looks like a very ordinary lump. Nice limbs and all that. And the hair’s still pretty--- well. Pretty. John reaches over gingerly and threads his fingers through the dark curls. Soft and still slightly damp. Just from the shower then and look at him, deducing even after 4 pints. Sherlock would be proud. 

The lump stirs. And he really ought to move, because he’s a little bit on top of it and that’s probably a crap way to wake up, with your slightly smashed mate pawing at your head. (And yes, he’s probably more than slightly smashed if he’s pawing at Sherlock’s hair to begin with—but it really is very nice hair. He shouldn’t keep it so nice if he doesn’t want it pawed at. That, John thinks, is very reasonable. And Sherlock likes reason and would therefore agree with him.) 

As he debates, the lump yawns and stretches underneath him. It’s a cute sort of yawn. Sleepy. Kitten-like. And very much not terrifying at all. If it wasn’t Sherlock, it might even be cute, but then, of course, it is Sherlock and therefore the word ‘adorable’ can’t be reasonably applied to him. 

The lump opens its eyes. “Hello,” John says, seeing as it’s too late to really deny that his fingers are still very much tangled in Sherlock hair. He gives them an experimental tug.

Nope, not coming out. Sherlock doesn’t seem to be all that bothered by it, though, so John swings his legs up and settles in fully over him, his hand shifting so that it cups the back of Sherlock’s head. 

“You know,” he says conversationally, now that he’s a bit more comfortable- “Don’t usually a make a habit of this sort of thing. Tends to be misinterpreted, you know?”

Sherlock blinks in acknowledgment, apparently still too sleepy to properly respond. 

“You took a shower,” he says finally. 

“Yes. I did. Rotten shower. The tap only runs cold.”

Sherlock blinks again. “Did it occur to you to actually take off your shirt?”

Come to think of it, it hadn’t. But John can’t be bothered to move at the moment, sodden shirt and all. He busies himself with examining Sherlock’s face instead. Eyes a bit strange, but no more strange than average Sherlock-strange, which is pretty damn strange, but still just within the confines of plausibly strange---

Sherlock makes a little mewl of displeasure, possibly because John’s shirt is now soaking through the nice silk of his dressing gown.

“Right,” John sighs. “Probably should be getting up. Getting up stairs and all that.” 

He pulls his fingers away and starts to get up, accidently (probably—he’s not entirely sure he can vouch for his morals at the moment)—but yes, accidentally brushing them against Sherlock’s flank. And that’s when it happens. 

There’s no way to describe it. He TURNS. It’s the eyes or the face or something, but by the time John realizes that he’s in some very deep, very scary shit, he’s been pinned to the sofa (and hang on, he definitely had his shirt on a moment before)—but he can’t concentrate on that, because Sherlock’s whispering something incredibly dirty in his ear.

“John,” he says (Fine, it just sounds dirty, all right? His voice is chocolate and honey and John wonders slightly deliriously why his mum decided to name him that, when it clearly ought to be associated only with delicious, naughty acts)— 

“John,” Sherlock says again, because apparently it bears repeating, this new addition to his kinky vocabulary. “Stay,” he says, nuzzling into John’s neck. His tongue comes out to lap at John’s neck and he practically purrs with contentment.

The cat metaphor, John thinks dazedly, might have gone a bit too far. He vaguely recalls thinking that kittens were really quite adorable a minute earlier, but clearly he was mistaken, they’re actually quite fucking terrifying. 

Sherlock sits up, straddling John, a bewildered expression crossing his face. “Cats--?” he asks. “But why cats—“

It slips. Right there, for half a second, it’s just Sherlock, puzzling out a little fact, but that’s enough for John. He bolts upright and dumps the unsuspecting detective onto the floor, where he lands in a tangled mess of bed cloth and dressing gown. 

“Fucking hell—I’m not crazy. I’m not, I swear to god, but Sherlock you’re doing something—Jesus. Are you naked under there? You are. Fuck. You’re a fucking menace--“

Sherlock snaps back in an instant. “Of course I am,” he says silkily, his full mouth turning downwards in a decadent pout. He tugs at the tie and yup, yes, black pants aside, that is quite definitely naked. And gorgeous. And if John’s brain tries to supply the words ‘alabaster’ or ‘marble’ to describe Sherlock’s chest one more time, he’s going to do something quite desperate involving bleach. 

And then it clicks.

“Of course? What do you mean, of course? Why would you ‘of course’ be naked?”

Sherlock glares up at him through his fringe and John shuts up. Sherlock pulls himself into a kneeling position and John watches, fascinated again, as he unceremoniously buries his face in John’s groin. He drops a kiss onto John’s painfully hard cock and he can’t feel it through the denim of his jeans, but Jesus---

John imagines rubbing the head of his cock over those soft lips, painting them with his pre-cum. Tangling his fingers back into that hair and pushing into the wet heat, excruciatingly slowly. Sherlock would want it—he’d take it all, just turned on by the idea of pleasuring John—and he’d let John see when he spread his legs and touched himself, still kneeling on the floor, his lips wrapped around John’s prick--

No. 

What?

The actual fuck.

“I could make you come like this,” Sherlock muses, his breath hot even over the thick material. His voice drops an impossible few octaves lower and John doesn’t doubt that he could, not for a second. He could probably make John come by breathing a little too heavily at this point. 

But Sherlock is far from done with destroying whatever is left of John’s brain function.

“Or you could come in me, if you prefer. Or---I in you.”

Zero to 60 in under one minute. John wonders what it says about him that it doesn’t particularly surprise him. 

“Were we talking about sex?” John asks him, peering down the length of the couch to where Sherlock is still kneeling at his side. “Because I could have sworn, Sherlock, that we were not talking about sex--“

“Now we are. And you were thinking about it.” The requisite “don’t be an idiot’ is clearly implied. 

“We haven’t even kissed.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow and manages to look like a Playgirl centerfold while doing it. Not that John’s very aware of what those look like. But he’s fairly sure if he saw one, it would look like the debauched, sex fiend version of Sherlock currently splayed out at his feet.

“That is easily remedied.”

Sherlock leans forwards, but John is starting to see it now. The edges where the—thing---whatever thing it is—start and where Sherlock begins. Well, Sherlock as he knows him-- the mad, sarcastic, socially awkward genius, not this---thing. (Well said, John, you should be a writer, says the voice in his head that ALSO sounds suspiciously like Sherlock, because now he’s in his head too.)

“I’m not a thing.” The real Sherlock frowns. He looks genuinely a bit hurt, not that John’s necessarily buying that. Of course, that seals it.

“I’m not actually talking aloud, am I?” 

“I don’t know. Are you?”

John sighs. “I don’t know what you are. But I do know that I would very much like to have a nice fuck and then deal with the aftermath in the morning, because, whatever non-established thing you are, I, you see, am very human.”

Sherlock delicately places one hand on his knee, sliding it slowly upwards. “And so—“

“And so,” John says firmly, sitting up. “We are going to upstairs. And you are going to fuck me, even though it’s a terrible decision. Or maybe precisely because it is a terrible decision, knowing us. And we’ll deal with the fact that you’re possibly some sort of fucking fairy in the morning, because that seems like an awful lot to process when—“

Sherlock follows his gaze down to the prominent erection that is growing very uncomfortable within the restraint of John’s jeans. He palms it briefly and John gasps, arching up under the slight touch. 

“Ah,” he breathes. “I see.”

“Brilliant,” John chokes out. “Let’s get on with it then.” 

……………..

Sherlock hooks his fingers under the sides of his panties and slides them off, revealing a still soft-cock nestled in amid the wiry black curls. He follows John’s almost accusatory gaze down and flaps a hand dismissively. “Don’t worry about me.”

“No, but—“ 

Sherlock pushes John backwards onto the bed and settles over his stomach, effectively cutting off all further protest by slipping his tongue inside John’s mouth. “Let me,” he says against John’s lips and there it is again, the intangible chocolate and roses shift from possible hook-up material (if he’d only keep his mouth shut), to irresistible. 

It occurs to John that Sherlock is not really very good at whatever he’s doing. The breaks are disconcerting. Probably the question John ought to be asking is “Why?” He’s inclined to go with experiment but knowing Sherlock---well, that would be the best possible scenario. 

John’s regretting that he’s really not pissed enough for this. 

He takes hold of one smooth thigh and flips Sherlock on the bed, so that his leg stays hooked over John’s middle. He’s ador—no---fuck it, he is—adorably flushed and, to John’s gratification, he can feel Sherlock’s cock pressing into his stomach now.

“That’s better,” he says softly, spreading his fingers over Sherlock’s abdomen. 

Sherlock’s pouting. There’s really no other way to describe it. The full works, with protruding lower lip and resentful eyes. 

“Keep that up and you might not even have to try your seductive—aura—thing, on me.” John tells him bluntly. That, of course, only makes the genius sulk all the harder. 

“It’s a compliment, you daft bastard.”

“This isn’t working,” Sherlock tells him, frustration leaking out of every syllable. 

It seems to be working just fine, as far as John’s concerned, seeing as there are dicks about and he hasn’t felt the urge to scream and run just yet. He drops an experimental kiss on Sherlock’s lips. 

“Nope. Doing pretty alright over here.” 

“You. You are not working. Seducing you never works.”

“Doesn’t it, love? You’ve got me in bed, seems to me you’re doing just fine. Well, at whatever you’re doing.” John furrows his brow. “Unless that wasn’t the point at all, in which case---“

“No, that was indeed partly the point.” Sherlock’s giving him the look again. The “we-both-know what’s going on here” look, that is always annoying but all the more so right now, because John has actually completely given up on even trying to comprehend his situation at the moment. 

Because if he sits down and thinks too much about the whole fairy, seducing, spell nightmare going down, the only logical conclusion will end up being that he has, in fact, lost his marbles, and really, John would prefer to enjoy his last few moments of hoping this is some sort of absurd, incredibly vivid dream. 

Unless—

“Did you drug me again?” he asks suspiciously. He hasn’t had anything to eat around the house for hours, but come on. It’s Sherlock. Sherlock, who looks scandalized at the very thought (which says precisely nothing). 

“Oh my god. You did—you did, didn’t you, you fucking---“ he tries to untangle himself, but they’re far too intertwined for that. 

“No, no, of course I didn’t John—I wouldn’t---“ and then Sherlock presses up against him and kisses him, before John can point that yes, indeed he would, and yes, indeed he has before.

Sherlock pulls away long enough to look him in the eye. “I would not drug you in this situation,” he clarifies seriously. “Because that would negate the entire point of experimenting with my seductive abilities.”

“Right. I think we’re going to have to talk about that at some point.” 

"Also because that would be very not good." John relaxes. 

Sherlock takes his hand and draws it between his thighs, to where his cock is leaking and swollen and John gives up, because really, there is only so much he can be expected to handle. He’s still highly suspicious of Sherlock’s motives, of course, because he’s not an idio--- Sherlock’s lips crash against his, wild and insistent and he gives up on that line of thought too. He’s clearly an idiot.

Meanwhile, Sherlock’s being characteristically grabby and demanding and really, John’s not having that at the moment. 

He tangles both his hands into Sherlock hair and yanks, forcing his mouth slightly more open so that he explore it thoroughly with his tongue. Sherlock responds by sliding his hand up John's chest, one hand pinching his nipple, the other circling around his back. They grapple for dominance for a bit, since they’re both stubborn bastards like that. 

Jeans still on----Advantage, John.

Fucking fairy glamour thing—Advantage, Sherlock. 

Still, John’s holding his own, even if his brain is a bit muddy. At least, until Sherlock expertly undoes his zip and slides down the length of his body, settling between his legs. John’s so turned on at this point that even the mere sight of Sherlock, his lips hovering above John’s prick in the exact manner of his fantasy, is almost enough to set him off.

“Don’t come,” Sherlock instructs, as if John’s just being willful. John responds with a mental tirade of swear words and then Sherlock takes him in, inching down until the tip of his nose brushes John’s pubic hair and the swear words are no longer mental. 

“Fuck, fucking hell---“

Sherlock pops off. “Is that your version of sweet talk?” Because of course Sherlock would stop in the middle of a blowjob to make a sarcastic quip. Of course he would. John gets up and pushes at Sherlock until he allows himself to be manhandled onto the floor. He settles in between John’s thighs, surprisingly docile. 

“Ah, obvious,” he mutters. And then he licks experimentally at John’s cock, his hands folded quietly in his lap, as if anticipating John’s next command.

“Touch yourself,” John tells him, his voice ragged. “Go on. I want to see---“

Sherlock doesn’t bat an eyelid, though there’s a faint pinkness to his cheeks again. John’s not quite brave enough to tell him how fucking beautiful he is when he’s blushing, but judging by the annoyed look Sherlock sends him from under his lashes, he gets the message quite clearly. He braces one hand against John’s thigh, his mouth suckling gently now and fuck, that’s good—light and teasing and frustrating, because John can’t take a whole lot more right now. 

“Sherlock---“ John says again, trying for commanding. What comes out is more along the lines of a broken gasp, but Sherlock closes his eyes and spreads his knees. One hand drops hesitantly to his cock. He grips the shaft briefly, biting his lip, and then dips down to fondle his balls. It shouldn’t be this hot—his touch is clinical, massaging just as needed and John’s sure he’s got pressure and stimulation down to a science---

“I want to see you lose control,” John blurts out, before he can think more on the advisability of saying that out loud. Sherlock’s eyes snap open and he appears to consider for a bit. He moans experimentally around John’s cock and all right, that’s pretty hot, but this isn’t a porno and John’s perfectly capable of telling a real moan from a faked one, thank you very much. 

“No I---come here.” 

Sherlock pulls away and wipes bit of spit off of his jaw. “Ah, no.” 

“No,” John repeats, processing that for a second. “Why—oh god.”

Sherlock chooses that moment to experimentally runs a finger up behind John’s balls and John chokes on his own spit. “Um, Sherlock, that—that’s—“

He slips the edge of his finger in and John seems to remember that this was a bad idea, but he’s not quite sure why. 

There’s a shift again and then Sherlock’s pushing him backwards onto the bed, crawling over him and slotting their limbs together. He reaches for lube (John’s fairly sure it just materialized out of nowhere, but he’s willing to chalk it up to fairy dust at this point and let it be) and then his slippery fingers are back, cool and clinical as they rub John in the most intimate way possible. Two of them now, scissoring lightly and John moans into Sherlock’s shoulder. He’s never done this before, but there’s something undeniably satisfying about being filled with those long, clever fingers. Fuck, John’s never going to be able to look at that violin the same way again. 

Sherlock bends his neck to John’s pulse, tugging lightly on the skin with his teeth and then lapping over it in a particularly determined manner. 

“Wait, you can’t leave a mark—have to go to work—“

Sherlock has a gleam in his eyes. John doesn’t like that gleam. 

“Sarah,” he breathes. And then he dips his head back down, before John can tell him how not ON it is to mention one’s partner’s ex in bed. His infuriating hair (and John’s blaming all of this nonsense on the hair, if the vampire glamour theory doesn't hold up to daylight) rubs against John’s jaw and nose and John curls his fingers through it, pressing Sherlock’s face to his neck. 

His fingers find John’s prostate and yes, John theoretically know how arousing that is, but he’s never had a girlfriend that kinky and his medical textbooks never allowed for the brain-melting phenomenon which is Sherlock Holmes with his fingers stuffed up John’s arse. It seems like a gross oversight, all things considering. In fact, John’s certain that there are medical conditions that could be cured by this. Not that he particularly wants Sherlock experimenting around but perhaps they could run a few case studies—

“John?” Sherlock pulls off, his fingers leaving John’s arse with a wet squelch that shouldn’t be arousing, but is (that’s getting to be the motto of John’s night at this point). “Are you okay?”

John has to think for a second. “It was better when we were kissing,” he blurts out. Is that an embarrassing thing to say? Possibly. Sherlock’s grinning, so yeah, it probably is. Which isn’t fair really, though his full, wet mouth nibbling at John’s bottom lip almost makes up for it. 

“I’ve figured it out,” John announces against his lips. “You’re a vampire that seduces his victims. That’s it, isn’t it? I’m right?” 

“I will devour you,” Sherlock growls at him and yup, that’s theory confirmed then. Not entirely unexpected. 

“I’d prefer to survive this, you know,” John tells him. Sherlock leans down and viciously nips at his neck again. “Oh alright, I mean, just a preference and all, not that big of a deal—“

“You,” Sherlock promises raggedly, “Are not going to survive this.” 

John sighs. “Yeah, I was rather afraid of that—urgh—“ Sherlock draws John’s wrists up over his head, pinning them down into the mattress. He locks his eyes with John’s and somehow, half the air is sucked out of the room as that laser-beam focus concentrates solely on John. It’s hotter than Sherlock’s fingers, caressing him just so, though just the memory of that is enough to make John spread his legs further. Sherlock takes that as the invitation it might be (oh, alright, as it definitely IS, in for a penny, in for—something---blah). He slots their hips perfectly together, because he’s a damned tall bastard and can do things like that. 

There’s a surprisingly tight, intimate place between the curve of Sherlock’s inner thigh and his cock and John presses into it. Sherlock bites his lip and shifts, so that his cock slides against John’s length and it’s maddeningly tantalizing, but not enough.

John lifts his hips in search of more friction and Sherlock grinds down against him.

“Yeah that—oh god, that—is good—“

“John—I—I want—“ There is something to be said for having Sherlock’s cock inside of him. It seems an appropriate place for it to end up. But that’s also presuming that John’s going to last that long and John is most definitely not going to last that long. 

“Next time,” he manages to gasp out. “You can bleed me dry over the kitchen counter.”

Sherlock gives him a strange look. “Ye-es—“

“You can fuck me in the living room, over the sofa—“

Sherlock’s hands slide down to John’s shoulders and he braces himself on his elbows, his thrusting growing more erratic at the imagery. “Yes.”

“You can spread me open and eat me out on the kitchen table—“

“Fuck John—“

That voice should curse more often. That voice should curse all the time, with it’s posh, deep baritone, and forgo all attempts at normal speech. John cups Sherlock’s arse, that lovely plush arse, in both of his hands and grabs it to him, pressing them tightly together. There—tight and friction and heat, it’s absolutely brilliant-- and possibly Sherlock agrees with him, because his kisses are degenerating into sloppy territory. 

Sherlock’s hips are fucking him into the mattress and there’s something slow and hot building in his stomach. The fuck is his life---

“Say my name, “ Sherlock demands. “Say it—“

John closes his eyes.

“Oh, god—Sherlock—Sherlock, Sherl—“ His back arches off the bed and then Sherlock’s kissing him greedily, his own body trembling in John’s arms, and there’s something sticky and warm pooling across John’s abdomen. Sherlock goes limp on top of him, smearing the come further into his skin and John suspects there’s going to be no getting him off for a long while. 

“So,” John says casually, after a long beat. “You’re not a vampire?”

Sherlock raises his head and stares at him curiously. “I am going to presume you’re asking whether I have an inclination for biting my sexual partners and not whether I’m part of some fantastical army of the undead--

“Just fucking answer the question.”

“The answer is “no”. To the entirety of the above.” 

“And,” John continues doggedly, because this is somewhat important. “I haven’t been glamoured into thinking you’re eminently fuckable?”

“What into thinking I’m eminently what?”

“SHERLOCK.” 

“Really John, if you decide that using basic English is beyond your skills, I can hardly be expected—“

John thumps his head back against the pillow and sighs. “Right. That’s kind of what I thought.”

……………

“So he really was trying to seduce you?”

“Seems like it, yeah.” John stares morosely at his pint. He and Lestrade tend to do one day a week at the pub at most. John because alcoholic tendencies run in his family and Lestrade because he has a real job and needs to be mostly coherent for it. But this is their second time, in as many days, and John can’t bring himself to feel too guilty about it. 

Clearly this is an emergency, after all. 

“And he succeeded?”

It occurs to John that perhaps Sherlock is right and Lestrade is not a very good detective at all. “Greg,” John says patiently. “Would we be here if he hadn’t succeeded?”

Greg shrugs. “Well, it’s Sherlock, you know? For all I know, we’re here because he set fire to the entire street and your date in the bargain.”

“No, that wouldn’t particularly be worth commenting on at this point, would it?” 

“Fair point.” 

“Yeah, apparently, he has a thing for me, you know?”

“Mmhmm.”

“It’s a bit strange.”

“Ah.”

“Will you stop doing THAT?” John is patently sick of people in his life doing that. It’s getting old. 

“Doing what?”

“Making that “we-both-know-what’s-going-on-here” noise.” 

Lestrade pauses. “No. That’s the, “you-have-no-idea-what’s-going-on-here-and-frankly-it’s-hilarious” noise, mate. You’ve got them mixed up.” 

“Fine. So what’s going on here?”

“Seems to me,” Lestrade says with some satisfaction, ”That you’re in love with your flat mate.”

Greg really is slow on the uptake. It’s a miracle they let him on the police force at all. “How many times do I have to say it,” John says, a trifle less patiently then before, “I’m not GAY, Greg.”

Lestrade shrugs, as if this is not really a very big deal at all. “I know. But you say you had sex with Sherlock Holmes.”

“Did not.”

“Did genitals touch?” 

“I don’t—“

“You don’t have to answer that, but you know the answer. And it says bollocks to your not-gayness as far as he's concerned. Also. Irene Adler.”

“So he has some magical force-field that has no respect for sexuality, is that it?” Now that John says it, it makes sense. Sherlock being Sherlock would of course have the ability to seduce people despite sexuality—everything about Sherlock tended towards unnatural chaos, why not this? 

Lestrade, being the gem of a person that he is, moves on to the tough questions.

“So—how was it?”

“How was what?”

“Being fucked by Sherlock Holmes, of course.” Lestrade turns a bit red at the ears and glugs his drink. “Not that I’m interested in specifics, mind you, because that would be odd—“

“It was nice,” John admits grudgingly. “Not used to feeling hard bits against me and all, but it wasn’t—wasn’t bad.” 

“Not bad, eh?”

“Oh shut up.” John takes an unnecessarily large swallow of his drink. “I rather enjoyed it, actually.”

“Mmhmm--I can tell.”

“But it doesn't mean I'm attracted to him, right?”

“Nope.”

“I’m still only interested in women.”

“Yep.”

“I was just pissed last night. I’ll go back and it’ll be a bit awkward, yeah, but that’s just the sort of thing that happens among mates, yeah? Canoodling when drunk?”

“Sure.”

“You don’t buy a word I’m saying, do you?”

Greg drains the rest of his pint and wipes his mouth with the back of his sleeve.

“Nope.” 

…………………..

“You’re pissed again,” Sherlock notes dryly when John finally does come home. He’s sitting at the kitchen table, leaning over his microscope. Thankfully, he’s fully dressed.

“I’m not, actually.” And he isn’t. John can handle one pint quite well, thank you very much. And, he thinks with a sigh, Sherlock is no less eminently fuckable after one than he was after five. Hell, Sherlock is attractive when he’s completely sober if he’s telling the truth and let it not be said that John Watson is a coward.

He clears his throat pointedly. “So… about… yeah.”

Sherlock looks up with a slightly bemused expression. “I was assuming that you would wish to wipe last night from our collective conscience.” 

“Oh--yeah.” John's just getting more articulate by the moment. But really, isn’t that what he was going for? Pretending this never happened? So why is there a vaguely disappointed feeling floating around in his gut?

“So that’s what you’re going to do then? Delete it?”

“Ah--No.”

“No?”

“No.” Sherlock actually pushes away the microscope and proceeds to examine his hands as if they’re the most utterly fascinating objects on the face of the planet. Which they might be, mind you, though John’s of the opinion that Sherlock’s eyes could give them a run for their money.

Oh Jesus. 

He IS fucked.

“So what happens if we don’t?” John blurts out. “You know, we just—“

“Continue as before?” Sherlock’s voice is scoffing. 

“Yea—no. God, no. “ 

Fuck it. 

John strides over and takes a hold of either side of Sherlock’s seat. He looks at his lap speculatively. Sherlock is thin and John is not fat, so it’s more the concept of actually clambering in his friend’s lap that he finds to be a definite sticking point. There is no denying, really, that this was more than a one-night stand if he ends up in Sherlock’s lap the day after and they’re both fairly damn sober.

Sherlock waits, his face frozen. “John—“

“Right,” John says decisively. “Hold up a second. I’m not promising this is going to work.” He swings himself over so that he’s straddling Sherlock, whose hands automatically go up to grip John’s waist. It’s a bit cramped, all told, but the flabbergasted expression on Sherlock’s face is probably worth it.

“What is this?” he asks, his voice slightly strangled. “John--?”

“You promised me something,” John tells him.

“What---“

“You promised me that you were going to fuck me over the sofa. But I haven’t showered yet. So possibly I could fuck you instead. Or we could just indulge in some heavy snogging. And we could save that for next time.”

“Next time,” Sherlock repeats. Which is really what brings home to John how thunderstruck he is, because Sherlock never parrots back phrases. He’s probably incapable of dwelling on something twice. 

Well, John reflects, hopefully not. 

“Next time,” John agrees. He slides his hand up to gently cup Sherlock’s face. “Is that alright? I was hoping we could—“

“That you could fuck me in between dates?”

John winces. “Well, no. That I could fuck you after dates. Our dates. That seems a bit off, but I think you get---

Sherlock pulls him down, his hands fisting in John’s collar, and kisses him furiously.

“That,” he says, and swallows. “What you said there--That would be—good.”

John grins. “Right." But there’s one more thing.”

“Yes?”

“You’re going to have to stop seducing everyone you meet. It’s not on if we’re dating.”

Sherlock looks frankly puzzled by this. “I don’t seduce people—“

“Ah- yes. Yes you do. Everyone thinks you’re eminently fuckable—

“I’m what?”

“Molly. Moriarty. Irene. Sally—“

“Sally—?”

“No, hold up, forget I said that.” Greg is going to kill him. “Anyways,” John continues hastily, “The point is---“

“That I’m only allowed to seduce you,” Sherlock finishes. 

“Well, I think we can consider that a done deal,” John muses. “You’ve had that neatly wrapped up for a bit I’m afraid.”

Sherlock cocks his head to the side, as if this is news to him. “Really?” 

“Probably,” John admits. “Could have dispensed with your siren aura for a while now, actually.”

Sherlock grins and flutters his eyelashes, drawing John closer. “But John—Whatever would be the fun in that?”

“Oh, but I’m screwed, aren’t I?” 

“Definitely,” Sherlock agrees.  
………………….

**Author's Note:**

> You all are in SO much trouble, because I think I like this verse. And this John and Sherlock. And yeah.
> 
> Oops.
> 
> EDIT: Yes, there's going to be more-- I don't know yet if it's just going to be part two to this one or if I'm going to start an entirely new story in this style/with these versions of John and Sherlock. I'm away for three weeks after Friday, so expect something around the end of May? Probably?


End file.
